


Accidental Admissions

by ElwritesFanworks



Series: [♦/♠] Sex, Violence, and the Midnight Crew [4]
Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: 1940s slang, Anal Sex, Anniversary, Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkwardness, Bad Sex, Boss/Employee Relationship, Burnplay, Caught, Cigarettes, Complications, Dating, Disturbing Themes, Domestic Violence, Drunk Sex, Embarrassment, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Genital Torture, Injury, Juxtaposition, Knifeplay, M/M, Masturbation, Not a Date, Pushy Bottoms, Rain, Reckless Behavior, Romance, Sexual Fantasy, Slick gives really scary head when his teeth are in..., Slick sleeps around, Sounding, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Unhealthy Relationships, Violent Sex, Workplace Relationship, also this is not how you should use cigarettes, diner food, don't stick cigarettes up your dickholes after this please, except it totally is, playing fast and loose with canon, walked in on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:42:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slick gets caught in a compromising position, which makes it impossible for him to feign indifference. The rules of the game keep changing, and neither he or Droog knows quite what to do with themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

 It rarely rained in Midnight City, but when it did, it came down in icy sheets that were inhospitable even to those with no regard for their own well-being. Spades Slick lay on his bed in his room at the hideout, his mind buzzing with unwelcome thoughts.

He was a man with reasonably simple pleasures. The soft, sultry jazz that played on the radio, the cigarette he was smoking, the weight of his knife in his hand. He played with it lazily, running it gently over his plating, too carefully to do any harm, just enough to tickle a bit, to twinge occasionally, touches on the edge of pain.

Droog had been jealous _._

The thought was eating away at Slick’s brain like some sort of parasite. _Jealous._ That changed everything.

 It made no sense, and yet, it did… it was a mess.

Slick had been aware that he was walking a dangerous road the first time he offered to suck Droog off, but it had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, and he hadn’t really expected the consequences would be as much trouble as they’d proved to be. Sure, you aren’t ever supposed to make it with your subordinates, that’s a universal rule of operations, but the Midnight Crew was pretty skewed and unorthodox to begin with, and besides, Slick was pretty sure that Boxcars and Deuce had something going on. Why shouldn’t he and Droog?

_This is why,_ the rational part of him said. _You’re cracking up._ He wished there was a way to remove that part and stab it until he felt better.

It wasn’t supposed to go on like this. That was part of the problem. Slick had assumed that, once their debt was settled, Droog would leave and things would go back to the way they were before. Droog was hardly the poster-boy for commitment, and neither was Slick, by a long shot. So what if his thoughts drifted back to Diamonds sometimes when he was buried to the hilt in some loose dame in the back of a club, barely hidden from onlookers as a band played loud and wild, or when he was having his prick sucked by a buxom chanteuse in the front seat of the crew’s getaway car? Thinking wasn’t forbidden, and it’s not like he hadn’t thought of Droog before all of this. He’d thought about EVERYONE before all of this. He didn’t do it on purpose, and usually all it did was make him go soft in his hand, but sometimes strange thoughts would come to mind when he was on the edge, and if he didn’t soften when Droog appeared in his mind’s eye, that was probably just because he was too far along already. (Certainly he came faster than lighting when he did think of his surly subordinate, so he must have been near his peak. It didn't add up otherwise.)

This whole thing was spiraling out of control. That’s what irked Slick most. He could deal with unhealthy couplings. He could deal with the struggle to break Droog completely. But he was losing control of _himself_ and that was more than he could take.

He’d thought of breaking it off, the way he did any time a dame got too clingy, even thought about following the same routine of dinner, drinks, and rejection, but Droog wasn’t some floosy he could throw over for the newest pair of gams in town, even if he wanted to, which he wasn’t entirely sure he did. They had to work together after this - the situation called for a delicate touch.

Why was it that it was so hard to have his cake and eat it too? More importantly, why was Droog his cake to begin with? He’d never minded the long line of chorus girls and aspiring actresses all eager to be his moll, to pull him backstage before the show for a quick fumble or to get handsy with him when he drove them home. It’s not that they bothered him, mind you, but he couldn’t help but notice that the more Droog let him indulge his savage side, the more the powdered noses and sweet perfumes and soft curves seemed less like cake and more like an appetiser. He didn’t mind them, and he never turned them down, but they didn’t satisfy him, not completely.

It had all come to a head, now, and that’s what scared him. Spades Slick didn’t scare easy, either, yet he was scared. He took pride in his work, he was a professional. Now he was giving stuff away without meaning to, leaving himself open to all kinds of attacks.

The case in point was the pretty young cigarette girl he'd met at a club in Felt territory. Slick had been there, incognito, keeping an eye on the enemy competition, and she’d come on strong, all big, dewy, doe eyes, and plush lips that would have looked great bobbing on his shaft. When she’d hinted that she wanted to see him after her shift, he weighed the risks and decided to take her to bed. There was a motel near by that suited this purpose nicely, and soon he found himself lying back on scratchy, cheap sheets, watching the girl undress.

Everything had gone well, at first. She knew what she was doing, knew how to please a guy, and to look pretty while doing it, and he was interested, he really was. But then she slid out of her dress and wriggled out of her girdle, looking too pale and round and bouncy, and hopped up on his lap, and she was just not good enough. It’s not that she wasn’t good, but she was… lacking. Slick realized, shocked, that she bored him.

Even as he drove into her he felt like everything was wrong. Her moans were too high and breathy, and her pussy was too wet, the glides in and out of it too smooth. She started to shiver and shake and he found himself reaching down to rub her just to make it end faster.

Once she’d finished, he pulled out and when she reached for his organ, he found himself slapping her hands away.

“Easy there, sweet cheeks. I know a one-trick pony when I see one, and that wasn’t worth repeating,” he’d said, and maybe it was crueler than need be, but in that moment he didn’t care. She swore at him and called him a brute and a dirty scoundrel used his handkerchief to clean off her pussy and thighs, and left in a huff, her makeup smeared and her hair loose around her shoulders.

After cleaning himself off and abandoning the handkerchief in a trash can, since he would never have been able to look at it or use it again anyway, Slick had trudged home on foot, wincing as the rain started up, soaking him and making him even more uncomfortable than he already was. His only comfort was that the girl hadn’t gotten an idea who he was – he’d stayed disguised from the waist up. Still, it worried him – if word got around he was turning down willing broads, it was only a matter of time before someone realized he had some other attachment, which opened him up to blackmail, extortion, even ransom if someone managed to wrangle Droog into captivity somehow. That all this had happened on the Felt’s turf added to the threat, and stung like salt in a wound.

All these thoughts were making him irritable, so Slick made a shallow cut parallel to the plating on his chest – nothing that would scar, but just enough to twinge and keep his mind off the abstractions that were cluttering up his head. Setting his blade aside, Slick scratched along the wound, playing idly with it, remembering how it had felt to finger and suck and lick and fuck the wound he’d made in Droog’s abdomen. He was hard again in an instant and took himself in his free hand, not bothering to stifle the moan that made its way past his lips.

Droog really didn’t seem to have limits – not like other people. It was something that Slick had never seen in a sexual partner before, but now that he had seen it, he had no idea how he was supposed to go back to more typical coupling.

Like it or not, all this shit with Droog was spoiling him for anything else.

The pleasure was building steadily in his groin, and Slick gave in at last to the feeling of it, thrusting his hips and grunting as he let his mind conjure up images to spur him on towards completion.

The thought of Droog beneath him, letting him take him, sent a jolt through him that Slick had not expected. It was a pretty tame fantasy, considering the kind of stuff they’d gotten up to, but the thought of Droog giving up control, putting him in charge… Slick had never felt like he was completely the boss of Droog, even before all this mess had come up. He could change all that, could school him in respecting his superiors, could spank –

“Nngh, fuck, Diamonds,” Slick groaned, his head tilted back, his eyes shut tight as he rode out  his orgasm. He milked himself slow until he couldn’t stand it and let his hand flop, limply, onto the bed beside him.

He lay like that for a minute, catching his breath, but the need to keep from having congealed jizz caught in between his plates made him sit up and look for something to wipe up with, only to find himself face to face with Droog, who was standing in the now open doorway, his hand still on the knob, his eyes wide and his face unreadable.

Slick felt a heat creep up along his neck and steal over his face. He put on what he hoped was a defiant face, but could already tell it wasn’t a particularly convincing one. Giving up on pretences he sighed and looked down at his softening cock, and the spray of ejaculate clinging to his chest, and then looked back at Droog, who, by the look of things had heard him calling his name when he came. Slick swallowed.

“Fuck.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boxcars and Deuce are not amused with Slick's 'more volatile than usual' behavior, or Droog's penchant for storming off in a huff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, sorry it's been so long. I'm sick as a dog and am dragging around, wheezing and hacking away. So I haven't been in the mood to do much of anything other than lie around and wallow in self-pity and dirty kleenex. T_T
> 
> Anyway, here's the latest chapter, in which I try to challenge myself to write Boxcars and Deuce for a change. I was purusing the wiki for fact-checking purposes and came across the theory that Boxcars is Scottish. FYI, my boxcars is written with more of an old school mafia mobster voice in mind. Then again, this entire series is playing fast and loose with canon about pretty much everything. Welp, I'm deep in it now, so whatever happens, it's gonna happen on a particular path, which happens to go further and further into the 1940s and less and less into the Homestuck canon. So sorry, if that pisses anybody off. Though most of you are probably only hear for my fucked up porn, lol.
> 
> Speaking of porn, there isn't any in this chapter. Sorry about that. I figured you'd all suffer enough with my attempts at fluff, and me attempting to write HB/CD porn for the first time would be an ordeal best suited for another occasion, if ever. Sorry.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you don't hate this. OTL

* * *

       “Droog, listen –” Slick began but his subordinate turned and walked away without a word, slamming the door behind him. Slick cursed and fumbled to make himself at least somewhat presentable before staggering over to the door, tripping on some pile of junk in the process and nearly cracking his skull open on the doorframe. He ran down the hallway, shouting at the top of his lungs.

       “Droog? Droog! What the hell? I’m trying to talk to you, ya fat-head!” Slick snarled, throwing open the door to the kitchen where Boxcars was sitting and Deuce was in the process of setting a precarious stack of sandwiches down on the table. The noise of the door and the sight of his boss so livid with rage made Deuce jump, launching the sandwiches into the air.

       “Where the FUCK is Droog?” Slick growled. Boxcars frowned.

       “Are you okay, boss –”

       “ANSWER MY FUCKING QUESTION!”

       “He left. He took the car… I think,” Deuce whimpered haltingly as he gathered up the remains of his sandwiches.

       Slick growled and left in a huff. Deuce sighed and looked at the mess on the floor, picking up half of a ham and cheese. It flopped pathetically in his hand.

       “Sorry, Hearts,” the littlest crewmember sighed.

       “Don’t worry about it,” Boxcars rumbled, smiling. He got out of his chair with a grunt and reached out a hand to help Deuce to his feet.

       “I just wanted everything to be nice,” Deuce said wistfully. “It's not every day you have a four month anniversary.”

       “It’s okay. It stopped raining, at least. We can go out to eat.”

       “But Droog took the car –”

       “So we’ll take a cab.”

       Deuce smiled back at Boxcars and nodded.

       “Alright.”

♣♥♣♥♣♥♣

       There were some fancy places to eat in Midnight City but Boxcars and Deuce took a cab to a little pasta restaurant tucked away in a dimly lit alley. They’d found it by accident once and had taken quite a liking to it. The food was good and didn’t cost too much, the band played smooth jazz, and the staff was polite and unobtrusive, letting their guests eat in peace.

       The maître d’ recognized the couple at once and approached them with a smile on his face.

       “Good evening, gentlemen. I trust you would like your usual booth?”

       “If it’s free,” Boxcars replied.

       “But of course! Right this way, sirs.”      

       Once they were seated and a waiter had taken their orders for food and wine, Boxcars settled back in the plush seat of the booth with a content sigh. He grinned at Deuce and wished privately that his date had longer legs so he could play footsie with him under the table without having to lie flat on his back and risk sliding onto the floor. Not that he minded the legs, really. They were pretty near perfect, actually. If anything, it was the table’s fault for being too wide. Settling for the next best thing, Boxcars slid his hand across the tabletop and intertwined his fingers with Deuce’s.

       “Does this make up for the sandwiches?” he asked, and wanted to kick himself when he saw Deuce’s face fall.

       “Not that I wouldn’t have liked ‘em –”

       “No, no, I know that. I just… sorry, Hearts. I am a little distracted.”

       “Good distracted?”

       “Not really.”

       Boxcars sighed.      

       “What’s eating you?”

       Deuce took his time in answering, as though he really didn’t want to say anything more about it.

       “Is it me, or has Slick been acting funny?” he asked finally.

       “Funny how?”

       “Just… odd. Temperamental. More than usual.”

       Boxcars took his hand back and scratched his ear.

       “I guess. I mean, it’s hard to tell with Slick. But yeah, I think so.”

       Deuce narrowed his eyes.

       “Do you know something?”

       "Hang! Is this whole night gonna be about Slick?”

       “No! No, sorry. Oh, look, here comes the wine.”

       The waiter poured the wine – a nice red – and gave them a basket of warm rolls before disappearing back into the kitchen. Deuce tore into his roll and stared at his glass.

       “Sorry,” Boxcars mumbled. “I didn’t mean to bark at you like that. If you wanna talk about the boss, we can talk about the boss.”

       Deuce raised his eyes and smiled a little.

       “To be honest, I really would rather not. He just keeps… going off like that. Especially around Droog.”

       “I think Droog can handle himself,” Boxcars remarked, taking a bite of his roll.

       “I think so too. I just don’t like being kept out of the loop.” There was a note of sadness in Deuce’s voice. He was more childlike than the others, and sometimes that meant he got left out of things, though Boxcars made an effort to include him more now that they were an item. Still, he could relate to being underestimated, being nothing more than a thug. Deuce didn’t see that, but Droog and his boss still did, most of the time. It could wear a guy down.       

       “Well, I’m as in the dark as you are, if it makes you feel any better,” he offered. Deuce nodded and the waiter returned with their pasta. As they ate Boxcars considered the odd behavior of his boss, and the more he thought about it, the more it bothered him.

       “I think I’ll have to get my boots on about this. Maybe I’ll grill Knifey McStabs about it when we get back,” he thought out loud and Deuce raised an brow, slurping up a strand of spaghetti.

       “Who’s distracted now?” he said, though it came out mangled since his mouth was full.

       “Yeah, yeah,” Boxcars retorted, rolling his eyes. “Yer the one that got me thinkin’ about it.”

       “Well, think about something else.”

       “Like what?”

       “Well… we will be done with dinner by about nine. That leaves the rest of the night.”

       It was Boxcars’s turn to raise his brows.

       "That’s pretty fresh of you, makin’ a pass at me like that.”

       “What? Can’t a guy ask for a dance these days?”

       “You just wanna _dance?”_ Boxcars leered. Deuce wriggled under his stare.

       “Well… if you wanted to stick around…”               

       “Yeah?”

       “We could smooch some, if you’re keen.”

       A wide grin spread across Boxcars’s face.

       “Am I keen, he asks? Am I keen? Come on, eat up, and let’s get going!”

♣♥♣♥♣♥♣

       The dancing was pleasant and all, but all that hoofing seemed to do was rile Boxcars up more for the main event. It started to rain again on the way back to the hideout, and there were no cabs about, so Boxcars found a street vendor and bought an umbrella, sat Deuce up on his back, piggyback style, and walked them home. It wasn’t a long walk, fifteen minutes or so, and the streetlights were blurred and fuzzy in the rain, reflecting off the water on the street.

       One glance on the way into the hideout revealed that the car wasn’t back yet, and neither were Droog or Slick. Boxcars didn’t mind, taking a minute to shake off the umbrella before carrying Deuce to his room. He put on a record and locked the door.

       “Better get out of these wet clothes,” he suggested and Deuce nodded.

       It had to be record-breaking, the speed at which the clothes wound up on the floor and the couple would up under the covers of Boxcar’s king-sized bed. The biggest crewmember was happy as could be, squeezing and teasing to his heart’s content. Deuce was an agreeable partner for such activities, and he was warm and comfortable.

       Just as things were starting to get good, the front door banged open. Deuce froze midway through kissing down Boxcar’s broad chest, raising wide eyes to look at him.

       “Shh,” Boxcar’s mimed, holding a thick finger up to his lips, and turning his head to look in the direction of the noise. They listened.

       Footsteps. Shouting. Something smashing against a wall.

       “Don’t fucking walk away from me, Droog! Look at me when I’m talking to you –”

       “What’s to talk about? Why are you dragging this out?”

       “I’m not dragging it out, shithead, I’m trying to get you to look me in the eye without fucking flinching – there you did it again!”

       “I fucking didn’t!”

       “You did too! Look, whatever else happens, I’m still your fucking boss – you can’t just go disobeying –”

       A door slammed, followed by the sound of loud knocking.

       “Unlock this fucking door!”

       "No.”

       "UNLOCK THIS FUCKING DOOR RIGHT NOW YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!”

       Boxcars looked back at Deuce who was still staring up at him, saucer-eyed.

       “I’ll talk to him,” he mouthed, then pointed down at his stomach and Deuce went back to work. As Boxcars felt the pleasure take root in his gut, he tried to ignore the shouting and focus on Deuce. It took a few moments, but eventually Slick’s raging became white noise in the background. Generous as he felt in the moment, Boxcars made sure Deuce was distracted enough to forget about it too.

       


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter for some plot momentum - and to prove this fic is NOT DEAD!!!

* * *

  
Hearts Boxcars had spent the better part of a day trying to figure out how to approach his boss about the issue that he clearly had with Droog. When the boss had asked for someone to go with Droog on stakeout duty, Boxcars had let Clubs go, nodding at his worried expression. He promised he’d fix this, and for Clubs, he would.

Slick was sitting at the kitchen table, polishing his knives. His teeth sat in a glass full of cleaning solution – Boxcars wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, but doubted that it was healthy to have it come in contact with your mouth.

“Uh, Boss?” he began tentatively. “I… uh… I got somethin’ to say.”

Slick looked up.

“Yeah?”

Boxcars cringed at the sight of his toothless mouth and cleared his throat.

“Look, I know it ain’t really my business, but I noticed things ain’t exactly rosy between you and Droog, lately.”

Slick’s eyes narrowed and his grip on his knife tightened. Boxcars swallowed.

“Suppose that’s true – what’s it got to do with you?”

Boxcars met Slick’s stare, his mouth set in a thin line.

“You kept me up last night. You an’ Droog. Fightin’. An’ you two been at… whatever you’re at… for too long.”

He was on a roll now, his words running out of his mouth before he could button his lip.

“You think me an’ Clubs ain’t noticed how you two keep windin’ up injured even though it’s been months since we’ve had a real job?”

Boxcars paused and sighed.

“Just promise you’ll try to sort all this out. I trust your judgement, boss. Don’t make me regret this.”

Slick opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it and nodded, then opened it again, looking at the knife in his hands.

“I never thought I’d see the day when Hearts Boxcars says something intelligent,” he said at last. Though it lacked most of its usual force, the words still stung. When Slick made no move to continue speaking, Boxcars sighed again and turned to leave the room.

“Hearts-”

Boxcars paused and turned around again.

“Take some money out of the backup account and take Clubs to one of those swanky hotels downtown.”

Boxcars was too surprised to feel embarrassed at having his relationship uncovered.

“You mean it, boss?”

“Look, I need to have the hideout to myself tonight. Besides, I ruined your date last night.”

Boxcars stared at him.

“Just pack a damn travel bag before I change my fucking mind.”

Boxcars nodded.

“Thanks, boss.”

“Yeah, yeah, get outta here. I’m busy. And bring this conversation up again and I’ll gut you like a fish.”

“Yes sir.”

Boxcars left the kitchen grinning from ear to ear. Clubs would be so happy he sorted things out, and now they had a nice evening planned. He whistled to himself as he packed his and Clubs’ bags, and then sat down to listen to the radio as he waited for the other two crew members to return from their stakeout.


	4. Cigarettes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alcohol, cigarettes, solving problems with sex and violence... typical stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update! At last!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been so helpful and sweet with everything and all my delays and shit. I really am working on this, I swear. I'm just slow at it.
> 
> Also, I apologize for any typos, as always. I don't have a beta, so you're getting what I've edited myself and spellchecked and given a few once-overs, but there's always a chance I'll miss things.
> 
> On another note:
> 
> Warning: DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME.
> 
> I have never heard of someone sounding with a cigarette (thank God). I have heard of someone sounding with lit incense. To put it in context, it was on a blog of true confessions of masturbation horror stories and ended up with a trip to the ER and some surgery. So please, if you're into stuff of this nature, do your research, be safe, and don't model yourselves after Diamonds and Spades. These two are fucking nuts, at least when I write 'em.

* * *

When Droog and Deuce returned, Boxcars mumbled something about having to go, and spirited the shortest crew member away with him. Droog scowled. The idea of spending the night alone with Slick was not one that he found favorable.

As if the thought of him conjured him up out of thin air, Slick appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, his razor teeth exposed by a loose smile. It took Droog all of three seconds to realize that Slick was not only drunk – he was positively plastered.

Stumbling slightly as he crossed the room, he leaned against the wall a few feet away from where Droog was standing and undid the top button of his shirt.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Droog said flatly.

Slick licked his lips, going slightly cross-eyed.

“Don’t have to talk,” he slurred. Droog’s frown deepened. He got half way to the liquor cabinet, thought better of it, and poured himself a glass of water instead.

“I don’t want to fuck around with you anymore,” he stated.

“Neither do I – just wanna fuck you.”

He could hear the mockery in Slick’s voice and it infuriated him. Spinning around, he threw his glass at his boss. Slick was too drunk to dodge it and it exploded on impact, causing him to cry out and fall to the floor.

Droog’s heart was pounding. As his blood cooled and slowed, he felt a sensation of dread settle over him. He had seen people killed by far more innocuous objects when thrown at high speeds, and he had a good arm on him.

“Slick,” he croaked, his throat desert dry and raw like a fresh wound. He slowly sunk to the floor and dragged himself across it to where Slick lay. Swallowing, he rolled his boss over.

He had a piece of glass in his throat. _Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck._

“Slick? Fucking look at me!”

That damned grin stretched wide over that hideous mouth and Slick’s eyes opened.

“Didn’t break the skin,” he wheezed. With shaking fingers, Droog pulled on the glass.

There was a place on his throat where Slick’s plating had crumpled in on itself, blood welling up in the grooves and trenches of the wound. It looked painful, but he’d live. Droog was profoundly grateful for the sturdiness of their carapaces. More than that, he was grateful for that damn smirk that Slick gave him as he reached out and grabbed Droog’s wrist. He moved his subordinate’s hand, letting it settle over the slight bulge in his pants. Droog’s eyes widened.

“What the-”

“Don’t be a fucking girl about this,” Slick ordered and bucked his hips. Droog shuddered but his hand, almost of its own accord, began to stroke over Slick's shaft in a shaky rhythm.

“Oh yeah…” Slick groaned, baring his injured throat. His voice sounded hoarser than usual and a drop of blood slid down to pool at his clavicle. Droog licked his lips. Hesitating only for a moment, he leaned in and pressed his tongue hard against the wound. Slick made a noise that was something like a pained sob and Droog _felt_ it against his mouth. Arousal surged through him and he squeezed Slick’s prick through his pants, hard enough that it had to hurt, but Slick just clung to him.

“Can’t stay hard,” he mumbled after minutes of teasing. “Too drunk.”

Droog grunted and fumbled with his fly, freeing himself clumsily and wrapping Slick’s fingers around him. To his surprise, Slick pulled his hand away.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “We… we’re doing this wrong.”

“What?” Droog snarled, anger and lust twisting in his gut. Slick staggered to his feet and swayed dangerously for a moment, reaching out to brace himself against the wall.

“Come on,” he said, and left the room. Droog followed and found himself walking into his boss’s bedroom.

“Come on,” Slick said again. He had flopped down on the bed and lay there, spread-eagled, having shed his shirt along the way, touching himself almost as though it were an afterthought.

“What’s going on?” Droog managed. Slick turned his head to look at the nightstand.

“Knife,” he said. Droog frowned.

“Knife,” he repeated.

The drawer slid open with ease, revealing a stiletto that looked deadly sharp. Droog reached for it and picked it up, testing the unfamiliar weight. He looked back at Slick.

“Here,” Slick said and pointed at the edge of one of the plates on his chest. Droog slid the tip of the knife under the natural armor and when Slick nodded at him, he began to pry it off.

Slick didn’t hide the evidence of his pain when he breathed in short and shallow, but he didn’t tell Droog to stop. Finally the material gave way and the plating came off. Droog stared at the bare flesh, broken in places and bloodied.

“Smokes.”

“What?”

“In my jacket. Smokes.”

Slick’s jacket was currently slung unceremoniously over a chair – something Droog would never have allowed with his own clothing. He went to them and found that there was an unopened, full pack in the pocket, and fresh matches, too.

“No pants… come here and light up.”

The instructions, while minimal, were clear. Droog did as he was told and returned to straddle his boss’s lap. Slick licked his palm and began to give Droog a sloppy hand job, as Droog smoked a cigarette.

“Put it out,” Slick said suddenly and Droog looked around for an ashtray. Slick shook his head.

“Here,” he explained and pointed at the patch of bare flesh. Droog’s eyes widened and he hardened further in Slick’s grip.

“Are you serious?”

Slick nodded. Droog reached up and removed the cigarette from between his lips. He stared at it for a minute, then brought it down and ground it into the tender flesh of Slick’s chest.

The smell of it, burnt skin and ashes, was intensely powerful. Even as Slick fought back tears, he grinned and reached for the discarded pack.

“Again.”

Slowly, Droog worked his way through the cigarettes, smoking each one for a short time before putting them out on the increasingly mutilated chest beneath him, all while Slick stroked his erection and sobbed and moaned. The moans were fake, of course – Droog could feel Slick’s flaccidness – but he didn’t care.

When at last they were down to the last cigarette, Slick took it from Droog’s hands and coaxed him to lie down beside him. When Droog did, Slick moved to Droog’s cock and took it in his hand. He licked a long stripe up its underside and, with no warning, shoved the cigarette’s butt end into Droog’s slit.

Droog was torn between arousal, rage, and horror as he watched Slick light a match and touch it to the end of the cigarette. Smoke began to rise upward in ribbons and Slick, seemingly heedless of the danger, leaned in and began to kiss along Droog’s shaft. When he reached Droog’s balls, he sucked at them, letting his teeth scrape over them, leaving shallow marks that stung and made Droog ache. Slick pumped Droog’s erection roughly, his thumb pressing against the end of the cigarette that slid back and forth inside Droog. As the cigarette burned, ash flaked off and fell and singed the inflamed skin of Droog’s prick.

It hurt and it burned and it was so, so perfect.  
  
Droog felt himself nearing his peak and bit his lip so hard it split in an effort to stifle his groan as he came, the force of it dislodging the cigarette, which was put out by a glob of his own ejaculate as it lay, smoldering on the bed.

Once Droog had recovered enough to sit up, he picked up the cigarette, now soggy and crumpled, its butt end bearing faint traces of blood.

“Diamonds,” Slick said, and Droog met his stare. “You’re one of the toughest guys I’ve ever known.”

There was an earnestness there that Slick only had when he was drunk. Droog didn’t know how to respond without sounding ridiculous, so he merely grunted in acknowledgement. He moved to leave and Slick shook his head, swinging a leg over his own.

“Need you to stay here so I don’t choke on my puke and die,” he mumbled. Droog made a face but settled back against the mattress.

“You still mad?” he added. Droog considered it.

“I’m always sort of mad at you,” he said finally, “but I’m no more mad than usual.”

Slick nodded, satisfied, and placed his teeth on the nightstand. Droog waited until he drifted off before getting up and washing himself in the bathroom. When he returned to Slick’s room, his boss was snoring quietly. Droog rolled his eyes at the absurdity of it, seeing a man like Spades Slick reduced to this, but put the cigarettes, matches, and knife in the drawer before drawing a blanket over Slick’s prone form. He rolled Slick onto his side so that he wouldn’t aspirate his own vomit, and left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar, in case Slick needed to make a quick dash to the toilet to empty his stomach.

For a moment, as he stood in the hallway, he was tempted to go back in. Shaking the urge off with a shudder, he walked to his bedroom instead, put on the radio, and listened to the news until he fell asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, a breakfast 'not date' and Slick's asshole becomes a reasonable option.

* * *

The next morning, Droog awoke with a full bladder and an aching head. He dragged himself over to the bathroom and went through his morning routine.

Slick was in the kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee and nurshing his wounds, when he heard a loud _‘FUCK’_ sound from down the hall.

Boxcars and Deuce had yet to return, and Slick wished, momentarily, for the stress-free morning they were probably having, with room service and good coffee, no post-coital injuries, no screams shattering through the air. Slick groaned and rubbed his head, but padded towards the bathroom with a sigh.

“Just so’s you know, I feel like shit today, so you should feel bad for screamin’ bloody murder so early in the morning. What the hell’s the matter, anyway?”

Droog glared at him, but it was hard to look intimidating when your pants were around your ankles and you were holding your prick.

“I’m pissing blood, you son of a bitch,” he growled. Slick detected the badly disguised note of fear beneath his anger and shrugged.

“So call a doctor.”

“It’s your fault! Come, look.”

“I’m not lookin’ in the toilet, Droog, that’s gross,” Slick drawled, rolling his eyes, but went over and did it anyway. He scoffed.

“That’s barely even pink. Your internal mechanics are sound – if you were bleeding inside it would be darker.”

“I know where I’m bleeding from, you ass. I’m bleeding from my fucking dick because you impaled it with a cigarette and now it stings like hell and don’t you walk away from me –”

Slick paused, one foot out the door, turned around, and leaned against the doorframe.

“What do you want me to do about it? So your dick’s gonna hurt for a few days. So I’m sorry. So what. You burned the fuck out of me and you don't see me boo-hooin' about it. Stop whinin'. You enjoy fucking me as much as I enjoy fucking you. We might as well admit that, at this point.”

Droog growled and shook himself off, wincing as he fixed his clothes, flushed, and washed his hands.

“I do not,” he snarled, jabbing a wet finger in Slick’s direction, “enjoy fucking you.”

Slick snorted.

“Yes you do. Fuck, I’m not stupid – you’d have killed me already if I was some dame.”

Droog scowled, drying his hands on a black towel, monogramed with a cursive ‘D’.

“I don’t kill my dates.”

“You would if they stuck a cigarette in your dickhole.”

“Why…” came a weak reply from down the hall. Slick turned in surprise and found the smallest crewmember looking like he was going to be sick.

“Hey, Deuce,” Slick said neutrally, tipping his head towards the little guy by way of greeting. “Diamonds, here, would come out and say hello but he’s busy picking tobacco out of his cock. Looks like you’ll have to piss in the sink.”

“I don’t even… I just… Putting this away,” Deuce mumbled, gesturing to his overnight bag. He dashed past Slick shaking his head. Droog pushed past Slick and stalked off towards the kitchen.

“Congratulations, you traumatized him. He'll probably never smoke again with out crying. You’re a real prick, you know that?” he grumbled as he picked up Slick’s mug and downed its contents in one.

“Yeah, well, you’re a fucking thief. That was mine.”

“Not anymore,” Droog replied humorlessly and opened the icebox.

Slick bared his teeth and hopped up to sit on the counter.

“What are you looking for?”

Droog glared at him.

“It’s an icebox. What do you think I’m looking for?”

He reached in and pulled out a greying blob that might have been a clementine. He made a face and threw it in the trash.

“You didn’t buy any food, again,” he stated. “Why am I not surprised?”

“I’m a busy guy. Bosses should have to do their own shopping. Why don’t I have a lackey?”

“Do you ever stop talking, or do I need to rip your tongue out along with your teeth?”

“Try me,” Slick sneered, sticking his tongue out at Droog. The second-tallest crewmember shook his head and opened the breadbox. He pulled out a handwritten note.

“You left an I.O.U. note for bread? No one does that, Slick. I’m willing to bet that not even the Felt are that inconsiderate. Now I’m going to have to go out and buy groceries and some damned rubbing alcohol so that my prick doesn’t go necrotic and -”

“Stop whinin'. If you’re that hungry you should just come out with me – I know a place that serves liver and onions –”

“I hate liver and onions.”

“They have other things too, smartass, and it’s good and cheap and there’s coffee for a nickel –”

Droog sighed and rubbed his temples.

“I’m actually going to go crazy listening to you.”

“Well, tough luck, ‘cause I won’t stop until you say you’ll join me.”

“What is this, some parody of a date?”

“It’s just me, wantin' to go to a place that has liver and onions. And so what if it was a date, Droog? After all the times I let you mess around with me you owe me a fuckin' brunch.”

Droog weighed his options. Slick kicked his heels against the counter and scratched his chin.

“Fine,” Droog said at last. “But you have to shut up and not say any of this nonsense about it being a date, and you have to let me drive.”

Slick grinned toothily.

“It’s a deal.”

 ♠/♦

The sound of Spades Slick digging into a plate of liver and onions was not an attractive one. Droog poked at his hash browns doubtfully and tried to ignore the slurping, smacking sound.

“Wuh nud tuh tuk,” Slick exclaimed suddenly, sending half-chewed liver flying across the table. Droog gagged inwardly and used the end of his butter knife to nudge one of the fragments off his plate.

“What about?”

“This,” Slick said, gesturing wildly.

“Your lack of table manners? Or your desire to put me off breakfast foods forever by showering my side of the table in your repugnant saliva?”

“I mean you and me, and our… whatever you want to call it.”

Droog put down his fork and folded his hands.

“What part of ‘I don’t want to talk about this?’ do you not understand?”

“I don’t want to talk about it either, but someone’s gotta man up and do it.”

Droog’s eye twitched.

“Don’t make this into some absurd competition of masculinity. That has nothing to do with it.”

“It’s got everything to do with it!” Slick shouted, and a few diners looked over in fear.

“Look,” he hissed, “I know I said I wouldn’t let you fuck me, but if that’s what it’s gonna take, then I’m willing to do it!”

Droog blinked, his mouth falling open in shock. Slick’s face did something similar – he hadn’t really intended on revealing that fact, and certainly not so abruptly – but it was out now. He composed himself quickly and decided to press on.

“Look, this is a one-time offer, and I won’t take kindly to you spreading it around,” Slick added, frowning. “And it don’t mean nothin’ tender – you’re still my pain-in-the-ass employee and I’m still better than you.”

Droog closed his mouth, but the shock wasn’t gone from his face.

“You honestly think that that will make this… ‘thing’ make sense? That I just fuck you and suddenly we get along?”

“Nah, if that was true half of Midnight City’d be sendin’ me Christmas cards. ‘sides, I like fightin’ with you, sometimes. I just also like fuckin’ you, so there. Now I get both.”

Slick sat back, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“There it is. I like fuckin’ you. You want to be stupid about it, fine. But I’m tired of gettin’ nowheres with this.”

Droog stared at his greasy breakfast.

“These eggs taste like cardboard,” he remarked. Slick shrugged.

“I don’t mind ‘em. Want me to eat yours?”

“I’d rather you put your mouth to work somewhere else,” Droog retorted, and when he looked up, his eyes were burning with a familiar heat. Slick grinned in spite of himself.

“Would you, now? You want me to get down on my knees under the table, maybe?”

Droog choked and shook his head.

“Come on, ain’t you ever been sucked off in a restaurant before? It’s the best of both worlds – good food, good service, capiche?”

“Stop reminding me you’ve fucked everyone in every possible location on the planet. Let’s settle this bill and go to a hotel before I remember why I hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright. Hold your horses – I’ll flag the waitress.”

Slick did, too, and calmly asked for the bill, feigning a stretch as his hand fell into Droog’s lap and squeezed his cock. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, given the state of Droog’s urethra and his disapproval, but the waitress didn’t notice, and it was worth it, Slick decided, for the half-enraged, half-horny look on his face.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things don't go according to plan.

* * *

Droog wasn't sure what to expect as he and Slick rode the elevator up to the 3rd floor of the nearest hotel. He felt like everyone must be guessing why he was headed there. The elevator operator kept glancing at him, and it was driving him crazy.

"What?" he finally snarled and the glances stopped. Slick waited until they'd reached their floor before bursting out laughing.

"You're so jumpy, it's hilarious!" he wheezed between guffaws.

"I'm not 'jumpy!' But he was giving me a look-"

"Well, yeah, this is the room I book for torturin' people. Poor guy thought you were on death row."

Droog's face betrayed his surprise. Slick's eyes widened in realization and he laughed harder, his gruesome mouth mocking him with a devilish grin.

"You thought he thought..." he broke off chuckling and kicked the door open, leaving Droog bewildered and angry and standing in the hallway.

"You comin'?" Slick drawled from inside and Droog grit his teeth, following his boss into the room and shutting the door behind him.

Slick had shucked his clothes off already and was standing with one foot hitched up on the nightstand, fingering himself quickly as a preparatory measure. There was a bottle of oil on the nightstand, beside Slick's foot, and he stuck his fingers back inside it, getting his hand glistening wet.

"Get yer cock out," he said and Droog didn't voice his displeasure at being bossed around, though it did spring to mind. It wasn't the only thing that sprung, though, and when his erection surged free from the confines of his clothing, and that warm, wet grip encircled it, he decided he could forgive Slick, just this once.

Until Slick was shoving him, hard, onto the bed, and climbing on top of him, straddling his lap.

"What are you trying to pull?" Droog growled but Slick chose that exact moment to sink down onto him. Droog, though he'd never admit it, was keenly aware that his eyes fluttered shut at the sensation of being squeezed by such tight heat. He rolled his hips and Slick made a noise of discomfort.

"What are ya, a damn teenager? Fuckin' wait a minute!"

Droog ignored the jibe and waited all of six seconds before thrusting again and using Slick's distracted state to his advantage, rolling them over so that he had the smaller male pinned. While still sheathed in that roiling warmth, Droog forced down on Slick's throat with one hand as he bent Slick's leg in towards his chest with the other. The position changed the pressure on his cock in a less-than-pleasant way (the organ was still sensitive from the crude sounding the night before.) Droog hissed and winced and glared down at Slick through slitted eyes.

His boss was leering up at him, his lips turned down in a hideous grimace, his teeth deadly sharp and bared like an animal's.

"Too much for you?" he rasped. Droog scowled.

"Wha-"

"Said am I too MUCH for you, Diamonds?" he repeated and clenched, tight and deliberate around Droog's length, making him grunt.

"N-no," Droog stammered, and damn it, he wanted to sound more forceful than that, but Slick was annoyingly good at this.

Angry, Droog grabbed Slick by the throat and pushed him down, primal and snarling.

"I'm gonna make you pay for that," he growled, not specifying what, exactly, but getting his point across. Slick bit at his chin, cutting it with those damn teeth that had started this downward spiral of a sexual arrangement. Droog squeezed Slick's neck tighter until the grin faded from his face and his eyes bugged out.

"I'm gonna fuck you so hard you'll black out," he forced out, his voice barely a voice, more like a grating of steel on cement. A roaring, angry sound that Slick had never heard before.

Droog yanked Slick's hips into place and rubbed the head of his cock over his boss's twitching hole. Slick made a weak moaning sound that sent a shiver straight through the taller male.

It was hot, being in control, finally, FINALLY putting Slick in his place. Fuck it, it was more than hot. It was perfect and twisted and he felt like he was burning with rage and lust and he was gonna make Slick take it, yeah, fuck, take his cock like the whore he acted like, swanning around taking everyone to bed - Droog was gonna ruin him, make him think twice about fucking anyone else ever again - and  
\- and then his brain sort of fizzled out for a minute or two as Slick rolled his hips like he was some kind of god of butt-fucking or something and oh shit, he was supposed to be in charge here, damn it, put Slick down for once, and keep him there, but Slick was reaching for him, biting along his neck with those teeth and oh fuck, oh shit, oh oh _ooohhhhhhh_

"Did you just -" Slick said, and then began to laugh, a full, belly laugh that sent him sprawling sideways, off of his subordinate, cum streaked down his ass and the crease of his licorice-black thigh. Filthy, Droog thought, and scowled when the image made his softening cock twitch.

"Y' didn't even put it in!" Slick wheezed and covered his face with his hands as he shook with gleeful, mocking laughter. "That's a new record," Slick chortled. "That lasted what, like 30 seconds?"

"Shut up!"

Droog's cheeks were burning, dark and flushed. Embarrassment made him violent, and he clamped a hand roughly over Slick's mouth, regretting it when he got a palm full of blades.

"Shut the fuck up," he repeated and boxed Slick's ears for good measure. His boss crumpled, holding his head and cussing as he recovered from the blow. When he looked up, Droog was already dressed and halfway out the door.

"Where the fuck d'you think you're going?" Slick shouted after him, but Droog kept walking and disappeared from sight.

Slick looked down at the cum on his thigh and swore, jacking himself off quickly and with little enthusiasm.

"What a fuckin' asshole," he muttered, and if his eyes stung, it was because they were fucked up from Droog squeezing on his throat like he did. It's not like he'd never been here before - he just usually was the one to walk out the door, was all.

Slick looked at the bedside table and his mouth fell open in shock. Droog had left his hat, of all things.

He must've been furious, to do that.

Slick eyed the article, and rose shakily from the mattress, retrieving his knife from his discarded pile of clothes. He stalked back over to the hat and drove the blade swiftly through the black felt.

It felt good. It felt better than good.

Stab, stab, stab - his arm beat out a brutal rhythm as he destroyed the hat entirely. He kept it up until his arm was shaking and the nightstand was marred with countless cuts and grooves.

A bitter sneer on his face, he picked the ruined hat up and used it to clean off the cum that was crusting on his body.

_You want to be an asshole, Diamonds? Fine. Two can play at that game._

**Author's Note:**

> hope you're enjoying this latest installment! as always, feedback is appreciated!


End file.
